full of moxie and viscosity

I try so hard to remove myself from the fantasy. I busy my day. Watch foreign television because it's interesting and pause on a channel that has maps on it because I think I might learn something. I'm watching television. Does this sound odd to anybody else? To ignore my dream. I just watch it, hoping to land on Cartoon Planet or a rerun of the Cosby Show. I find a romantic movie. Cry through it. Damn myself, this is so hopeless. Love isn't hopeless, I'll always believe in it, like I always say- Love Will Save The World. But the fantasy is hopeless. I can't even understand what love is until I feel it, so this whole drawn out torturous masochistic dream world thing is pretty much pointless. Ha! My entire life, my work, my voice, all is defined by that fantasy. And it's an Ouroboros. Until something breaks the cycle- someone, it's infinitesimally endless. I consume what I shed.

My Conclusion For Today:
My entire life is pointless!

(but the burn of it makes it worthwhile. I will continue on: my cyclical, obfuscating conundrum of a life is totally worth it as long as I can feel this burn, the slice of the possibility, the enhanced awareness of hope.)